


Protector

by softestpunk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 23-year-old Emhyr, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nilfgaardian baths, also contains:, and some Skelligan mercenaries, characters also include Emhyr's mum, like you're gonna have to imagine Fergus var Emreis' naked butt for this fic, so much naked Geralt, so much naked everyone to be entirely fair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-28 07:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17178641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: In an AU where Fergus var Emreis has not been overthrown and the creeping spread of Nilfgaard makes work scarce for witchers, Geralt is hired by a concerned emperor to protect his son from a looming plot against the throne.Naturally, nothing in Nilfgaard can ever be that simple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have adjusted the timeline for this, by which I mean I have scrunched it up into a ball and then tossed it in the nearest waste paper basket. Essentially, Emhyr and Geralt are reasonably close in age in this new, improved timeline (I imagine Geralt to be about twenty-seven).
> 
> I have also taken a stab at Nilfgaardian grammar and probably murdered it in the attempt.
> 
> Shoutout to quills_at_dawn for listening to me ramble about this fic endlessly and iirc, giving me the idea in the first place.

Emhyr fought the urge to pace as he waited for the Nordling who was due to be presented to him any moment now. It was unseemly for the crown prince to appear _nervous_ , and he would not quite have described himself as that. Apprehensive. Curious, too.

But not nervous.

He had met Nordlings before, even been tutored by them in their language and a basic grasp of their customs, but this one was different. A witcher. A dying breed of elite warrior, a mutant. Stories about witchers ranged from the banal to the unbelievable—some believed they were responsible for slaying dragons, some thought they were little more than a well-trained mercenary.

Emhyr did not believe anything in particular about witchers, since he had never met one and could not make a determination about them for himself.

A rap on the door made Emhyr look up, focusing on the space where this witcher was about to appear. The page announced him—Geralt of Rivia, and that was a strange name, Emhyr thought, but he _did_ know where Rivia was, and knew the land to be ruled by a king of mediocre talents but strong loyalty among his people. There was something to be said for a man who could command loyalty.

The doors opened to reveal a tall man—not quite as tall as himself, Emhyr thought, but perfectly average by Nilfgaardian standards—with square shoulders and striking, long white hair tied away from his face.

But the thing that caught Emhyr’s attention were his eyes. He had heard stories that witchers had eyes like cats, with slitted pupils, but he had not expected to stare, transfixed, into intense golden irises that seemed to see everything, pupils widening just a fraction to take in more detail.

The witcher bowed the technically perfect, respectful bow of a man who had just been shown how to do so, and Emhyr watched him carefully, noting the grace of his movements, the coiled power so obviously held in his muscles.

He wore armour that had clearly seen much practical use, studded and covered in straps, two swords worn on his back. Strange. Most men carried a sword at their hip.

Emhyr was accustomed to mercenaries doing business with his father, but this man did not look like a mercenary. His face was handsome, unblemished, not twisted by his work. One legend about witchers suggested they had unnaturally long lives, as long as full-blood elves—or longer, perhaps—though Emhyr felt that this one was not so much older than his own twenty-three years.

He was not naive enough to think, though, that the witcher would not know what he was doing. There was something about the way he held himself, the control in his posture, the set of his shoulders that suggested great confidence in his own skills—skills which, Emhyr was sure, had been tested often and vigorously.

Once he was upright again, the witcher did not hesitate to hold Emhyr’s gaze. Perhaps he hadn’t been told he shouldn’t, or perhaps he didn’t care.

In either case, Emhyr was glad it gave him an excuse to continue looking at his eyes.

“My name is Geralt of Rivia, your majesty,” the witcher said in awkward, halting Nilfgaardian.

“I speak Common Nord,” Emhyr said automatically, not wishing to put either of them through any more butchering of his native tongue than was strictly necessary.

Geralt smiled a bright, warm smile at him. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

Emhyr stared, a twinge deep in the pit of his stomach giving him pause.

People did not smile like that at him. Nor did they address him with such casual familiarity.

It was not, precisely, that he was offended. He simply had no idea how to react.

“Do I need to speak more slowly?” Geralt asked, clearly willing to do so if required.

That, finally, was enough to spur Emhyr into a response. “No,” he said. “No, I understand you perfectly.”

He was suddenly aware that, to Geralt, _he_ may well have had an awkward, thick accent. It was difficult to know.

The witcher said nothing, and Emhyr took another moment to look him over, trying to look past his expressive, knowing eyes and take some measure of him. Without being sure what he was looking for, though, he could do nothing other than…

Other than feel that he could have done worse. Anyone might have been chosen to protect him. Geralt seemed to understand the necessity of personal hygiene, was not wholly unpleasant to share space with, and did not speak Nilfgaardian—and thus could not report on anything Emhyr might say when he would otherwise be alone, to himself.

He did not like the idea of a… _companion_ , his father had said, which sounded much less severe than personal bodyguard. No one could know of Geralt’s true purpose here. He really was supposed to act as a sort of decorative pet, the very idea of which made Emhyr’s nose wrinkle when he thought of it.

But he _was_ decorative, and exotic enough to be suitable for the crown prince.

Emhyr did not hate him, which at least meant that he was not the worst possible option. And if Emhyr refused him, the options were unlikely to get better.

“He is acceptable. Leave us,” Emhyr instructed, glancing at the assembled crowd.

Geralt looked at him cautiously, obviously not entirely sure what had just happened when people began to file out of the room.

“I will accept your service,” Emhyr repeated, for Geralt’s ears alone. It came out softer than he intended, shy almost, his grasp of tone not as well-developed in Geralt’s language as his own.

Geralt nodded, another small smile turning up the corner of his lips. “Thank you, your majesty,” he said, his eyes sparkling, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Emhyr wasn’t sure how to feel about any of that, so simply filed away the image for later consideration.

“You must be tired,” Emhyr said. “I understand quarters have been prepared for you. Someone will show you to them.”

“You don’t have any questions?” Geralt asked.

“What questions would I ask? My father is wise, he would not have chosen you for this task if he had not thought you well suited for it. Aside from agreeing that you are suitable, and I see no reason you would not be, there is nothing I need to know.”

Geralt considered him for long moments, and Emhyr felt again that his eyes saw more than most men might have liked. “Okay,” he said, finally.

The general sense of having made a mistake fell over Emhyr, though he was not sure exactly what his mistake had been.

“Guess I’ll go rest, then,” Geralt said, taking a step back and bowing again, this time with no technical precision but an artful flourish instead.

Emhyr watched him take his leave, the sinking feeling that he had slightly miscalculated settling in his stomach.

***

The quarters that had been prepared for him, Geralt discovered, directly adjoined Emhyr’s own. He could see the purpose of that—one day the young prince would have a spouse, probably, and Geralt was aware that the nobility liked to keep separate rooms for reasons best understood by themselves—but it was still strange to be in this position.

It wasn’t as though he had a lot of choice. Work for witchers had been dwindling for a while in the North, and he’d struggled the past two years to make ends meet, lucky that there was plenty of game to hunt around Kaer Morhen in the winter and a place to roast it. Otherwise, he would have been dead by now, not of monster attack, but sheer starvation.

Taking this job had been the only good option going forward, and the promised reward would save him from lean months for quite some time.

The job itself was simple enough: the emperor’s son was in danger, and needed someone competent in close reach. There was an element of secrecy, too, because evidently nothing in Nilfgaard could ever be straightforward or simple. Geralt had, officially, been brought as a companion for Emhyr.

Companion being a euphemism for a less polite word.

If he’d known the room—no, _rooms_ —that came with the job were this good, he would have just volunteered for _that_.

So far he’d been shown that Nilfgaard had water flowing indoors—it came out of taps like the ones on a barrel of ale, and was taken away by a pipe attached to the washbasin. As if that wasn’t enough of a luxury, he’d been shown a bathing chamber with a sunken pool carved into stone, filled with water flowing in from places unknown that was always warm. It wasn’t even magic—his medallion hadn’t so much as twitched. He’d also been told he was expected to bathe twice a day.

_Expected_.

_Twice a day_.

Geralt considered himself lucky if he got to have a hot bath once every few weeks, and half the time he had to heat the water himself.

He’d stayed in rooms smaller than the bed.

Everything smelled clean and fresh in a way that he’d never experienced before. It was so strange for absolutely nothing to offend his senses.

Even Emhyr himself had smelled good, not heavily perfumed like most of the nobility Geralt had met, not covering up the smell of his breath or his body—both of which had been clean—but with just a hint of something inviting.

Unofficially, Geralt was here to make sure that the emperor’s enemies didn’t go after his son—or if they did, that they wouldn’t succeed. Fergus had made it clear that Geralt shouldn’t hesitate to kill them. The punishment for threatening harm to any of the royal family was death, and it would be kinder for them to die in the act than await a public execution.

Not that he minded.

He’d been left an assortment of dried and fresh fruits—some of which he couldn’t identify—but his stomach was still tight after he’d had to travel through a portal to get here. The last thing he wanted to do was complain about a job that was clearly going to keep him housed and fed for a while, but he wasn’t about to risk putting anything in his mouth right now.

The only thing giving him pause was the clothing. In the North, Fergus had dressed more or less like every other ruler or noble Geralt had seen, in a quilted doublet, heavily embroidered, exactly what Geralt expected to see on the sovereign of what he knew was an enormous empire.

Emhyr had been dressed in a wide-necked, short, embroidered robe and loose-fitting trousers made of a thin fabric that moved freely with him. Geralt hadn’t missed that it was warm here, and his sore muscles were already thrilled, but…

He was staring at a silk shirt that tied closed at the hips and would leave his chest exposed to his navel.

Next to it, a pair of leggings that Geralt could already tell would leave little-if-anything to the imagination.

He’d seen a few people dressed similarly on his short walk to meet Emhyr, though this was taking it to new extremes.

But his official job title was _companion_ , and Geralt was under no illusions about what exactly that entailed. People needed to believe that he was here for Emhyr’s every whim, for his pleasure, and this… this was apparently what he liked.

Or at least, what people would believe he liked.

Nilfgaard was _weird_.

All the same, Geralt wasn’t inclined to walk away from this. He’d met a man earnestly afraid for his son’s life, and then he’d met his slightly awkward, soft-spoken son who’d stared at his eyes but clearly hadn’t been disgusted, and…

He could come to like these people. This place.

Not to mention it was the kind of adventure he could tell stories about for years. No one was ever going to believe him about the water.

Which made it worthwhile. This was a job worth doing, even if there were no actual monsters involved.

He’d figure out how to wear the clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you that Fergus var Emreis would be naked in this and I wasn't kidding, enjoy.

“He really is very striking,” Efa murmured into Emhyr’s ear.

Emhyr started, turning away from his observation of Geralt to look at his mother.

The witcher had taken a few moments to determine how the etiquette of eating worked here—quite differently than in the North, Emhyr understood—but had picked it up more or less flawlessly after only watching those around him for a brief period, short enough that it would barely have been noticeable had Emhyr not been watching him so closely.

Now, he ate with enthusiasm, and licked his fingers before wiping them clean, and made soft, pleased noises when he found something he particularly liked, but continued to explore the spread in front of him with incredible courage, not even pausing to ask what things _were_ before putting them in his mouth.

Watching his reactions to dishes Emhyr himself liked and disliked had been a fascinating insight into the witcher’s tastes and palate. He preferred the strongly-seasoned to the bland, crunch to softness, and had apparently discovered a new appreciation for those things which were both sweet and salty, a warm hum vibrating in his throat when he discovered a dish that combined the two.

“Unusual,” Emhyr agreed. “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“You’ve heard stories of witchers,” his mother said. “Surely you had some idea?”

“I have also heard what Nordlings say about elves,” Emhyr pursed his lips. “They are unkind to those unlike themselves, and untruthful.”

“True, but I know some things we’ve heard are facts. They can neither catch nor carry diseases. And their stamina is legendary.”

Emhyr looked over at Geralt, considering what it must have been like never to have caught a cold. “It would need to be,” he said absently. “Monsters are fierce in the north.”

His mother gave him an odd look.

“It is important,” she continued after a moment, “that people believe he really is here because you enjoy him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be perfectly agreeable company,” Emhyr said, allowing himself the small lie in the interest of reassuring his mother that he would avoid putting his own life in danger, where possible.

No part of him was sure that Geralt would be agreeable at all. Aside from a slightly awkward beginning, he had been polite, and interested, and Emhyr did appreciate that Geralt had at least _tried_ to speak to him in his native tongue, regardless of how successful he’d been. It showed a man who understood what it was to respect someone else’s culture. They would not, Emhyr thought, have trouble on that front.

But they did not know each other, and Emhyr was resistant to company in general, much preferring his own to anyone else’s. Suddenly having to share space with a stranger would strain his patience.

“I believe him to be skilled and reliable,” Efa responded. “And not at all hard on the eyes.”

Emhyr wet his lips. “Yes,” he agreed. “Striking.”

As was often true, Emhyr was not _entirely_ sure what his mother was driving at, but he understood enough to know that she wanted him to like Geralt. Probably, he suspected, because it would make him less likely to dismiss the witcher and leave himself undefended.

For her sake, Emhyr would keep him close. He did not need further convincing than putting his mother’s mind at ease.

Geralt had discovered one of the small, sour fruits rolled in sugar that Emhyr himself was fond of, and was touching it to the tip of his tongue experimentally. Emhyr watched as he explored it, licking the sugar off one side in a broad stripe and then laying it on the flat of his tongue before drawing it into his mouth, closing his lips around it and making a soft, pleased noise as he took his first bite.

Emhyr swallowed, unsure why the pit of his stomach suddenly felt heavy. It was a _good_ thing that he might share some preferences with the witcher.

“You enjoy them?” Emhyr asked in Common Nord, mindful of his pronunciation.

Geralt’s tongue darted out again to lick sugar from his lips as he nodded.

“So do I,” Emhyr said, aiming at friendly and pleased with himself when the words seemed to come out that way.

No sooner had he said it than Geralt had passed the dish across the table in offering.

Emhyr’s heart leapt into his throat. Directly offering another person food was… intimate, though Geralt clearly hadn’t realised this.

Refusal would be rude by both Nilfgaardian and, Emhyr suspected, Northern standards.

No one had ever offered Emhyr food like this other than his own parents. No one had ever dared.

The only possible course of action available to him, though, was to accept. Anything else would be too suspicious, and would likely offend Geralt as well.

 Blood pounding in his ears, he reached out and took one of the fruits, staring at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and he knew he’d fumbled the words, but Geralt offered him another smile, so clearly the message had gotten across.

Emhyr was very, very grateful that his complexion was such that a blush was not terribly noticeable as he popped the fruit in his mouth. Geralt, he thought, had eaten it with rather more art.

Their cultures were bound to clash a little, and Emhyr thought he’d managed the best possible reaction to an awkward situation. His father would have been proud.

***

“Geralt,” Fergus var Emreis enthused, a broad smile spreading across his face.

The fact that he was completely naked didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Not, necessarily, that it bothered Geralt. He’d grown up surrounded by other men and seen plenty of them naked.

It was just a little strange to see an _emperor_ that way, especially in a bathing chamber almost identical to the one he’d found adjoining his and Emhyr’s rooms.

He was built a lot like Emhyr—tall and square-shouldered, stockier than Geralt, with a more thickly-muscled chest and less defined waist, and carried himself with confidence befitting his station.

If Emhyr was as well-endowed as his father, the future empress was a lucky woman.

“Join me,” Fergus gestured broadly at the sunken bath in front of him, stepping down into the steaming water and sinking beneath it.

“It’s perfectly decent,” Fergus continued, clearly sensing Geralt’s hesitation. “You would not be betraying my son.”

That wasn’t _quite_ what Geralt’s objection had been, but…

Who was he to refuse bathing with an emperor?

In the interest of cultural exchange, he untied the low-fronted shirt he was wearing, folding it gently and leaving it on the bench, then shimmied his way out of the leggings.

Nilfgaardians, as it turned out, preferred not to wear boots or slippers indoors. They went barefoot.

He could feel Fergus’ gaze on him, and when he turned, the other man was looking at him appraisingly, a small, mischievous smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes.

“I had wondered if the hair was white all over,” he said. “Has he had you, yet? What did he think of it?”

Geralt paused, toes just barely dipped in the water of the bath. He met Fergus’ eyes, trying to read him as carefully as he could, unsure what the right answer was here and surprised by the question.

“My apologies,” Fergus said. “Sex is not a particularly private affair in Nilfgaard, we often speak openly about it. I must accommodate your sensibilities.”

“I’m not offended,” Geralt responded, gingerly climbing the rest of the way into the bath. “Witchers have… a reputation, your majesty, in the North.”

“I am aware.”

Geralt wet his lips. He had no idea how to respond to this, no idea which response would save Emhyr from getting into trouble.

He’d made Emhyr blush at breakfast by offering him those sugared fruits, and he’d known then that he’d see this through, and that if he was going to, his loyalties would have to lie with Emhyr himself.

It was a small thing, but Geralt only had small things to go on in this strange land. He’d been hired to protect Emhyr, so that was his job now.

Emhyr had been grateful for his attention, so Geralt would keep providing it.

“He has not,” Fergus concluded, tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I love my son, Geralt. I could not ask for a cleverer young man to pass the throne to one day, nor one more devoted to the welfare of his people. But I worry.”

Geralt remained silent, knowing that was the best way to get more information and desperately curious to know what else Fergus had to say about Emhyr.

“When I was twenty-three, I would have had to be pried away from my assortment of beautiful lovers and my wine glass,” he continued, “with great force. Nothing could have induced me to spend my days studying the way he does. I worry that he is wasting his youth without realising that he will not have this opportunity again. And I was hoping that you would at least report that he knows what his cock is for.”

“I’m sure he does,” Geralt said. Emhyr was twenty-three and Geralt had smelled arousal on him at breakfast. There was no way he hadn’t at least experimented alone.

It was a surprise to hear that he didn’t have a lot of experience—or _any_?—with other people, though. He was the future emperor of Nilfgaard. No one would have refused him, if for no other reason than the political gain.

And he wasn’t exactly repulsive, either. He was clean, and well-groomed, and his slightly unfortunate nose seemed to be a common feature among his countrymen, so that probably wasn’t getting in his way. Long, dark eyelashes and a full lower lip that he sometimes drew into his mouth and chewed on definitely lent him more than enough appeal.

Not to mention the fact that Geralt had barely been able to look away from his deep-set, expressive eyes.

Fergus snorted, spreading his arms along the edge of the bath and letting his eyes fall closed. “You would not refuse him,” he said perceptively. “Good. Please feel that you would be doing me a great favour by seducing my son, if you are inclined to do so.”

“I thought this was about some conspiracy to have him killed,” Geralt said, not wanting to answer that one way or another.

“It is. I was simply hoping we might get two foals from the one stud. Your primary task remains unchanged. I thought, as an aside, that you might be… suitably exotic for Emhyr’s tastes. I believe he thinks I am unaware of his interest in elven erotica.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Your wife is part elf,” he said. “A quarter, maybe.”

“We do not divide elven blood up into percentages and portions in Nilfgaard,” Fergus said. “But yes, about that. It is a great shame that Emhyr’s blood is too diluted for him to have inherited her ears, they would suit him so well.”

The mental image of Emhyr with the slightly-pointed ears of a quadroon formed suddenly in Geralt’s head, and he was forced to agree. They would have enhanced the sweetness of his eyes and lips, softened the hard line of his jaw.

“Yes, your majesty,” Geralt agreed, having surrendered by now to the surreal conversation they were having.

Perhaps it really was normal in Nilfgaard to talk about other people’s sex lives so openly. Geralt was quickly coming to appreciate the way things were done here. The food was fresh and full of welcome surprises, the beds were soft, they believed in bathing regularly, and Fergus had mentioned an assortment of beautiful lovers, implying that their feelings on casual sex were a little more positive than in the North.

He could have gotten used to that.

“Keep him safe, Geralt,” Fergus said. “He’s all I have.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Geralt repeated, his chest tightening at Fergus’ tone.

That was, after all, what witchers did.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite having better things to do with his time, Emhyr found his curiosity about the witcher insatiable, and not likely to fade until he had the answers he wanted. He’d never seen a witcher before, only heard distant tales of them, and Geralt seemed nothing like Nordlings said he would be.

They described heartless mutants, unfeeling, scarred and cursed and only interested in killing and coin. Ugly creatures, a necessary evil brought about by the Conjunction, and largely unnecessary in Nilfgaard, where the people were protected by a well-organised military from any and all threats, and magic was freely taught and practiced.

Geralt was not an ugly creature, nor could Emhyr see how he might be described as heartless. Their handful of interactions had been awkward, but not unpleasant. The witcher struck him as good-natured, confident in himself and his abilities, and while it was obvious that he was not quite an ordinary man, his strange eyes and milk-white hair only worked in his favour.

He was, as it turned out, scarred. Not as badly as Emhyr had seen on some men, but compared to his own single scar from when he’d fallen from a horse at eleven years old, scarred enough.

Emhyr wondered, as he watched the witcher train in only a pair of loose-fitting trousers that he suspected actually belonged to himself, how some of the larger, more prominent ones might feel under his fingertips. And then immediately wondered what had caused him to have the thought at all.

Genial as he seemed, Geralt was unlikely to indulge _that_ particular curiosity, and Emhyr wasn’t certain he should have wanted him to in the first place.

The witcher did not train like a common soldier, accustomed to fighting with dozens of people at his side. No, Emhyr suspected this was the style of a man who expected to face his opponents one-on-one, or to be outnumbered. He twirled and weaved and swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade ringing with the sheer speed of his blows.

He had been training non-stop for nearly an hour, heedless of the midday sun beating down on his back, only a thin sheen of sweat making his unnaturally pale skin glisten. Emhyr traced the lines of blue veins with his eyes, marvelling that so much strength could be packed into a body that seemed to show so many signs of weakness.

Geralt was lean, narrow-waisted and not especially broad-shouldered, built more like an elf than an adult Nilfgaardian man, and Emhyr had only ever seen middle-aged Nordlings with sedentary professions, so he wasn’t sure if that was usual, or another marker of his witcher status.

A ripple of magic filled the air as Geralt turned his open palm toward the training dummy he’d more than defeated and, with a small gesture, knocked it flat, the stand shattering under the force of the spell he’d clearly just cast.

So witchers _did_ have magic.

“Will you need another?” Emhyr asked as Geralt paused, sheathing his sword and laying it down on a stone bench in the shade before sitting down himself.

Geralt looked straight at him, meeting his gaze without hesitation once more. “I thought I’d limit myself to destroying one a day. I asked the quartermaster for ones he was planning to replace soon anyway.”

“I’m sure we can accommodate you no matter how many targets you may obliterate,” Emhyr responded. He felt he should take Geralt’s presence as an opportunity to practice his Common Nord. Especially as Geralt would know all the words that people whispered behind the backs of the powerful, and which Emhyr’s tutors had not taught him.

“I just need to stay in practice,” Geralt said. “I love the way people treat me here, though. Not so bad, being the crown prince’s pet.”

Emhyr considered Geralt’s phrasing for a moment, and then decided he was being sarcastic about his role here. “People treat witchers poorly in the North,” he began, unsure yet what it was he actually wanted to ask.

“We’re freaks.” Geralt shrugged.

“Unusual,” Emhyr corrected. “You should not speak of yourself such. It only gives other people permission to do the same.”

Geralt stared at him for a few moments, eyes glittering in the sunlight, his pupils dramatically slitted.

“Thanks for the advice,” he said, and Emhyr suspected _that_ had been intended as sarcasm, too, but it hadn’t felt cruel. Geralt was not cruel.

“Hey, question, is it actually normal for your father to insist on having meetings with me while he bathes, or was he just… picking on the foreigner?” Geralt asked after a moment.

Emhyr blinked. “Most people would consider it an honour, to be so trusted by a powerful man as to be allowed to bathe with him. You found it distasteful?”

“Not in principle,” Geralt responded. “I’m still getting used to Nilfgaard, I guess.”

“He must think highly of you,” Emhyr continued, wondering now just how close Geralt was to his father. “But you are not lovers, or you would not have thought the bathing unusual.”

The possibility that they _were_ had actually seemed more likely than not, initially, but now that Emhyr had more information he knew it to be untrue. Why, then, was _Geralt_ chosen for this task, specifically?

“I try not to sleep with married people,” Geralt said. “Saves their angry partners screaming for my blood.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

Geralt snorted, a genuine smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Only happened once. I’m a fast learner.”

“Multiple partners are perfectly acceptable in Nilfgaard,” Emhyr explained, his stomach twinging as he said it, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Yeah, kinda got that impression from your dad,” Geralt said. “Tales of a wisely-spent youth. And I killed an archgriffin that was attacking his convoy, if you’re still wondering why he thinks highly of me. It’d eaten half his personal guard by the time I got there.”

“And you slayed it alone?”

“Well, the other half of the guard had managed to get in a few good shots. But yeah, that’s what witchers _do_.”

Emhyr had once seen a griffin at a great distance, and been ushered inside with such hurry that he knew without question how dangerous the beasts were. Venomous, and aggressive, stronger than any man—stronger than ten men, the bestiary he’d read once reported. Coupled with the advantage of being able to fly, they were formidable foes, no doubt.

“What, exactly, _is_ it that witchers do?” Emhyr asked, curious to hear what Geralt himself thought of his role.

“We take contracts, fulfill them, get paid, and move on,” Geralt said. “Our job is to keep people safe from monsters. And sometimes monsters, the thinking ones at least, safe from people.”

“I am in no danger from monsters,” Emhyr pointed out.

“Some monsters are human.” Geralt shrugged. “Besides, not a lot of work left for witchers in the North. And people hate us. It’s nice to have a break from that. But if you don’t think I’m up to the job…”

“I have faith in my father. And you are clearly a skilled warrior.”

Geralt nodded, obviously pleased by this assessment.

He stood, stretching his arms high above his head. Emhyr watched the muscles shift under his skin, fascinated by Geralt’s easy grace.

The witcher really was a beautiful man, objectively. He would be very popular in Nilfgaard.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Geralt promised with perfect sincerity.

Something in Emhyr’s chest fluttered, and he had no doubt at all that Geralt would do his utmost to keep his word.

***

Emhyr managed to surprise Geralt just as he’d gotten out of the bath, still sitting completely naked on the edge of his bed. Geralt froze at first, but then remembered Fergus’ complete comfort, and relaxed again.

If Emhyr didn’t mind, he didn’t mind. Plenty of people had seen him naked, and it wasn’t as though he had anything to hide.

“I can return later,” Emhyr offered, his confidence in Common Nord already improving. To start with, he’d spoken like someone who’d only learned the most formal possible version of the language, but now he was relaxing, his tongue curling more easily around the syllables. Clearly, he didn’t get a lot of opportunities to have normal conversations with people who spoke it.

His accent was even kind of charming.

There was a heavy tome in his hand, halfway extended to Geralt.

“That for me?” Geralt asked, aware of Emhyr’s eyes on him.

Maybe Fergus hadn’t been wrong about him being just exotic enough for Emhyr’s tastes.

Deciding to test the theory, Geralt leaned back a little way, letting his elbows rest against the mattress.

He only just stopped himself from smirking at Emhyr’s barely-perceptible hitched breath, or the way his pupils widened as he looked Geralt over. He’d been doing the same thing when Geralt had been training yesterday, as well.

Despite knowing that Nilfgaardians weren’t shy about sex, Geralt still wasn’t sure how to make it clear that he was available and willing if Emhyr felt the urge to add a little realism to their currently-flimsy cover story.

“Yes,” Emhyr said belatedly, holding the book out the rest of the way. Geralt reached out to take it, deliberately brushing their fingers together as he did so.

The faint scent of arousal hit his palate almost the moment they made contact.

“I thought… if you were going to spend any length of time in Nilfgaard, you may wish to teach yourself the basics of the language. You said you were a fast learner.”

Geralt traced his fingers over the leather-bound book. “Thank you,” he said after a moment. “How do I say thank you?”

Emhyr paused, and Geralt could almost _feel_ him thinking. “That question does not have a single answer. It depends whom you are thanking, and how sincerely you mean it. I… I am happy to tutor you, but I suspect you would find me an impatient teacher.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You gonna make me run laps of the palace grounds if I screw up or talk back?”

The prince blinked. “It had not occurred to me that I might.”

“Then you can’t be any worse than what I’m used to.”

“You have had tutors?” Emhyr asked, obviously surprised by this information.

“How do you think witchers learn to be witchers?”

Emhyr regarded him carefully, clever warm-honey eyes focused on Geralt’s face. “I assumed it to be much the same as training a soldier. I was surprised, in fact, that you were comfortable with allowing me to believe you could read.”

“I _can_ read,” Geralt said, offended. “In Elder Speech, too. Can you?” he asked, remembering immediately as the words escaped him that Fergus had mentioned Emhyr had a thing for elves.

“I can,” Emhyr looked down at the book in Geralt’s hands, and Geralt had almost forgotten until then that he was still naked. “If you can read Hen Linge, then you should not struggle to pick up Nilfgaardian. The two languages are very closely related, though the pronunciation diverges and Nilfgaardian has a vast vocabulary, in comparison.”

“Then let’s call this a cultural exchange. You teach me how Nilfgaardian works, and I’ll tell you… anything you want to know. About the North, about witchers, even about monsters. Deal?”

A moment passed while Emhyr considered, and Geralt suspected that was because he was trying to find a catch.

He could really have used a friend. In the absence of anyone else, Geralt figured that was going to have to be _him_.

“Deal.” Emhyr paused another moment. “You will want to know how to swear effectively first.”

A broad grin spread across Geralt’s face. “You bet I do.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Heads up** : this one gets a little on the violent side. Not overly descriptive and definitely no worse than canon, but it's there.

“The rules are very simple,” Emhyr began, sorting the bag of large, grain-shaped pieces into black and white. “We each place one piece per turn on the board, with the aim of either making one of the four shapes engraved around the edges, or blocking the other from doing so. The more complex the shape, the more points it is worth. Five for a triangle,” he pointed to the appropriate shape. “Ten for a circle, fifteen for a flower, and twenty for a wheel.”

“Following so far.”

“Your points do not count until you have claimed a shape,” Emhyr said. “This is tactically important—if you are attempting a wheel but have first made either circle or flower, and you claim it, then your opponent will likely block you from completing the larger shape. But if you do not claim a shape on the turn it is finished, then the points are forfeit, so you must weigh up the risks. We each keep track of our own scores,” Emhyr said, nodding to the small pens and ink pots set into the side of the board for the purpose and passing Geralt a scrap on which to work.

The witcher rubbed it between his fingers, then brought it to his nose to sniff it, brows drawing together in confusion. “This isn’t vellum,” he said. “It has the texture of fine cloth.”

“It is…” Emhyr paused, pursing his lips as he thought. “The only Nordling word I know for it _is_ vellum, but it is not, as you say, that. It is made primarily of reeds, an imported technology from Ofier.”

Geralt touched a corner to his tongue, as though the taste would tell him more about this strange new item.

“I can have you provided with any quantity you may wish to investigate,” Emhyr said, surprised that Geralt cared at all—or had even _noticed_ —but eager to share his culture with someone who was so clearly interested in knowing more about it.

“I think I understand,” Geralt responded. “Witchers are just naturally curious.”

“We often add herbs and flowers,” Emhyr said, happy to satisfy Geralt’s curiosity. “But reserve sheets like that for letter-writing. Much of the nobility has a signature blend that only they use.”

“What’s in yours?” Geralt asked.

Emhyr smiled, and rose to go to his desk, plucking a sheet from the drawer. He offered it to Geralt, who submitted it to the same touch, sniff, and taste test as he had the original scrap, and then sniffed it again, making a soft, pleased sound. “This smells like you,” he said.

A lump formed in Emhyr’s throat. When had Geralt been close enough to smell him? Unless…

He had mentioned enhanced senses, Emhyr remembered, when they had studied together a few days ago.

Emhyr had barely stopped thinking about the incident, since Geralt had clearly been in no hurry to dress. Not that it was inappropriate for him to appear naked in front of Emhyr, but that his obvious comfort had been a surprise, especially after he’d expressed _discomfort_ at being asked to bathe with his father.

It was a puzzle, and not one Emhyr was satisfied he had solved yet.

“What _is_ it?” Geralt asked. “There are two distinct notes, but I can’t place either of them.”

He held the sheet to his nose again and inhaled deeply, and Emhyr might have mistaken his curiosity for pleasure if he hadn’t known better.

“Fennel and orange blossom, neither of which, I think, are common in the North,” Emhyr said. “And you are correct, I wear the same scent.”

“I like it,” Geralt concluded. “Smells better on you than this, though,” he added, passing the sheet back across the table.

“Keep it,” Emhyr said quickly. Too quickly, he knew, but perhaps Geralt wouldn’t notice how flattered he was.

He should not have _been_ flattered. Normally, he thought himself immune, but the witcher had a disarming sort of charm about him, direct and earnest, as though he’d never said a word he didn’t mean in his entire life.

Emhyr was certain this was untrue, but he saw no reason for Geralt to lie about enjoying the scent.

A genuine compliment, then. Except that he couldn’t fathom a motivation for _that_ , either. Geralt did not stand to _gain_ anything by appealing to Emhyr’s vanity.

A compliment for the sake of a compliment? Could it have been that the witcher was simply _nice_?

Not impossible, Emhyr decided. Merely unlikely.

“Thank you,” Geralt said, setting the sheet down beside him carefully, as though it was a precious gift, instead of the sort of thing another man would have thrown out as soon as he was done with it.

“Shall we play?” Emhyr asked, pushing the white pieces toward Geralt and sweeping the black closer to himself. “You should pick it up quickly.”

Geralt smiled, and drew his pieces closer. “I think I can handle it.”

After a dozen turns, Emhyr saw that Geralt most certainly _could_ handle it. Getting anything past him was a challenge, and one Emhyr was eager to rise to. He rarely found a serious opponent, and the excitement of finally having one made his heart race even as he fought to contain himself, knowing that this game was as much about not giving one’s intentions away as being able to spot opportunities and plan out the best way to exploit them, often several at a time.

He managed a victory, but only by ten points—a closer match, he thought, than he had ever played in his adult life.

The moment he announced his score he feared Geralt would take the loss badly, and would not want to continue with a game he had been defeated at, but he looked up to see the witcher’s eyes shining with discovery, his expressive face openly amazed as he reached out to pick up Emhyr’s final piece from the board—the one which had won him victory.

“Again?” he asked, clearly enthusiastic, and something in Emhyr’s chest seemed to flip over.

“Of course,” he agreed easily, happy to play for as long as Geralt would indulge him.

They sorted the pieces together this time, hands brushing against one another every now and again, the casual physical contact a strange experience. Geralt was clearly perfectly comfortable with it, which only made the whole thing seem more surreal.

No one touched Emhyr without permission, and while Emhyr would not have refused it to Geralt, not needing to offer it in the first place was a novelty.

Not to mention shockingly intimate.

“I can’t help but notice you’ve commandeered more than one pair of my trousers,” Emhyr said, nodding to the ones Geralt was wearing.

“Figured it was the fastest way to get into your pants,” Geralt responded, grinning.

Not for the first time during one of his conversations with Geralt, Emhyr felt as though he was missing something. As though there was some expected response he should give, something he hadn’t quite grasped. He was not accustomed to feeling embarrassed about his lack of understanding, but he was quickly learning that he knew very little of Geralt’s culture. Or at least, not enough to follow his meaning.

“I suppose it will do no harm,” Emhyr said. “Though you may have your own, if you wish. Mine would seem to fit you poorly.”

They hung low on Geralt’s hips—low enough that, when he stretched and his loose-fitting shirt rode up, a few white curls peeked over the top of the waistline. Geralt, clearly, had realised that Nilfgaardian men preferred not to bother with underwear when they were at home in the warm months.

Not that Emhyr had been intentionally looking. He’d just happened to cast his eyes in Geralt’s general direction.

And he _had_ already seen Geralt entirely unclothed, and in any case he was welcome not to bother with clothes in private. No one would even think him strange for it.

“The fact that they’re a little big is what I like about them,” Geralt said.

Emhyr shifted his weight, fingering the game piece in his hand thoughtfully, trying to plot his next move but suddenly unable to think far past the thought of Geralt intentionally wearing his clothes because he _preferred_ them.

No Nilfgaardian would have even considered stealing from the crown prince, but then what Geralt was doing was not theft, not really. He was simply making use of the resources at his disposal, and Emhyr certainly wasn’t about to tell him he couldn’t. Not while he was still trying to determine what about it brought him so much pleasure.

He eventually finished a triangle and claimed it, marking down his points—he’d noticed that Geralt had drawn the symbols and was placing tally marks next to them to keep score, which seemed more efficient than Emhyr’s own method of simply writing down the number of points he’d gained and adding them up later.

Next game, he would test out Geralt’s style.

Silence fell between them as they became absorbed in what they were doing, only interrupted when one of them finished a shape. The pace of the game sped up, Geralt making move after move with such confidence that Emhyr _almost_ missed his strategy, but was able to foil a wheel Geralt had been working on for some time at the last moment.

“ _A_ _’baethe aép arse,”_ Geralt murmured in response, clearly testing out his knew knowledge.

Emhyr was once again pleased a blush was not obvious on him as the tips of his ears burned at the mental image Geralt had just provided.

“Ah, no,” Emhyr corrected delicately. “The phrase you want is simply _a_ _’baethe arse._ Your version would generally be used as genuine request for a sexual favour, which is not what you meant.”

“You sure?” Geralt asked, meeting Emhyr’s gaze.

Emhyr was immediately _unsure_. Not that Geralt had made a mistake—that, he was sure of, since he had not had the opportunity to learn the true meaning of the phrase he’d uttered—but of how to react.

He was not entirely unable to tell when he was being propositioned—or at least, when the waters were being tested—but he could not fathom _why_ , and that made him doubt his conclusion that it was happening at all.

He worried that it was simply that he _wanted_ it to happen, though he had not consciously come to the conclusion that he wished to bed Geralt.

On the other hand, he had not, at this point, come to the conscious conclusion that he wished to bed _anyone_ , so perhaps the signs were more difficult to spot than Emhyr had long assumed them to be, and perhaps now he was reading too much into Geralt’s actions.

Suddenly overwhelmed by possibilities, he stood and walked to the window, leaving Geralt to sort the remainder of the game pieces for the next match. He needed the distance, and the cool night air, and the chance to clear his head.

A loud crack made him turn back to the room, the sight of a portal inches from his face making Emhyr’s eyes widen. Before he had time to react, an armoured hand reached through it, grabbed him by his robe, and pulled him in.

***

Geralt’s blood ran cold the moment he saw Emhyr disappearing through a rapidly-closing portal, his stomach already twisting as he rose and leapt for it, knowing that Emhyr was as good as dead if he didn’t follow him through. There was no way he was about to let that happen. This was what he’d been _brought_ here for.

The portal magic tugged at his insides as he fell through time and space, wringing his guts like an old rag, nausea welling up in the back of his throat.

He hit flagstones on the other end and knew there was no time to recover, barely rolling away from a kick aimed at his still-spinning head in time to avoid it. He didn’t even have a sword on him, dammit.

“Geralt,” Emhyr called out from where he was being dragged away by two men—Skelligan mercenaries, Geralt thought, judging by the tattoos.

Another two were bearing down on him, crooked grins on both of their faces.

“Hello,” he said, grinning right back. They hesitated for a split second, which was just enough time for Geralt to sweep their legs out from under them, picking himself up gracefully and ignoring his churning stomach and splitting headache.

He could throw up _after_ he’d done his job.

Kicking one of the Skelligans hard in the ribs, Geralt swooped in and relieved him of the dagger at his belt, driving it deep into his friend’s throat and then turning without a second thought to race toward Emhyr.

Apparently, the sight of an angry witcher covered in their colleague’s blood and running at them was enough to give the remaining two mercenaries pause, and Geralt found himself laughing as he watched Emhyr headbutt one of them right in the nose, hard enough to make the man cry out in surprise and grab his face.

“Behind me,” Geralt barked at Emhyr, wanting him as far out of harm’s way as he could get. He was still aware of the other Skelligan, but the man _was_ a mercenary—seeing two or three of his brethren go down would likely be enough to convince him that this wasn’t worth the coin.

The taller of the two in front of him—the one with blood streaming down his face from his undoubtedly broken nose—lunged for Emhyr as he ducked out of the way. He was fast for his size, but Geralt was faster, darting in to drive his elbow into the man’s jaw, the heel of his hand into his nose, and the dagger between his ribs, up to the hilt.

Geralt grabbed the fallen man’s sword as he slumped, gasping and sobbing, and wheeled around so he was between Emhyr and the remaining two.

The one he’d left with his unfortunate friend came for him.

“Are you _kidding?_ ” Geralt growled, kicking out as the mercenary approached and planting his foot in the centre of the man’s chest, the satisfying force of the contact leaving him staggering backward, too solid to knock down with a kick like that.

“You watched me kill _two guys_ with a dagger and you’re coming at me when I’ve got a sword?”

The Skelligan chuckled and then spat at Geralt’s feet. His eyes gleamed as he saw his remaining friend move, clearly thinking Geralt couldn’t sense him as well.

“Take a _hint_ ,” Geralt gritted out, turning and smashing the pommel of his sword into the approaching mercenary’s jaw, kicking his legs out from under him. He drove the tip of the blade into his throat before the man had even the slightest chance to beg for mercy, since Geralt knew that he wouldn’t.

This was clearly a fight to the death, and it wasn’t about to be his.

“Geralt,” Emhyr called out behind him, and the tone of his voice was just enough to make Geralt take his eyes off the final Skelligan to see what was going on, only to be blinded by a flash of light as a middle-aged man ensnared Emhyr in some kind of spell.

Not on his watch.

Ignoring the mercenary—who, if he was smart, would take this moment to reflect on the wiseness of remaining—Geralt went for the mage, clearing the distance between them in two strides and swinging his newly-acquired blade in a wide arc.

Neatly severing the man’s head from the rest of him.

Not. On. His. Watch.

Emhyr stared up at him from his kneeling position, dazed, scraped, and scuffed, but still in one piece and as lucid as could be expected for a prince who’d just witnessed four bloody deaths in a row.

Geralt turned back to the Skelligan, who was staring openly now, his jaw hanging.

“If you just… go, I’ll forget you were ever here,” Geralt said. His shoulder was sore from over-extending it for that last swing, and he didn’t really want to keep fighting.

The blade wasn’t all that well-maintained. Vesemir would have kicked his ass up and down the training yard for letting a sword get into this state.

The mercenary, smarter than he looked, nodded to Geralt and escaped through the far door.

Geralt stumbled to a bench set against the wall and collapsed onto it, letting the sword fall from his hand. He leaned forward between his legs, swallowing thickly in the interest of trying not to gag.

Portals. Why was it always portals?

“Are you all right?” Emhyr asked, approaching cautiously.

“Gimme a minute and I’ll be fine.”

“I would have thought you’d be used to this.”

Geralt snorted. He would have been mad that Emhyr wasn’t even going to give him a break after he’d saved the guy’s life, but he got the impression that Emhyr didn’t give _anyone_ a break, least of all himself.

“The bodies are fine. Portals, not so much.”

“Oh.” Emhyr sat down next to him, close enough for the warmth of his body to seep into Geralt’s side. “I’ve never been bothered by them, myself.”

Laughter welled up in Geralt’s throat, and before he knew it he was letting it escape him. At least it was helping with the nausea.

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” Geralt said, risking straightening up a little to look at Emhyr.

“I imagine the full impact will hit me later. But I have attended executions before. I am familiar with the sight of a man dying.”

Well, he was right about the full impact hitting him later. The death was one thing, but being kidnapped out of his own rooms was another entirely.

“I thought your bedchamber was warded. I thought the whole _palace_ was.”

“It was,” Emhyr confirmed. “The man you just beheaded was called Braathens. A well-trusted court mage. He would have had no trouble breaking them, since he was the one who last renewed them.”

Geralt swallowed again, fairly sure now that he wasn’t about to throw up. His head was still spinning, but he’d had worse days.

“I’ll put up the next ones,” Geralt said. “Give me another couple of minutes and we’ll get out of here.”

Emhyr nodded, glancing over the bodies once more.

“Thank you,” he murmured, meeting Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt stared into them for several moments too long, transfixed by the shift of colour from honey through to aged oak, the strangest he’d seen on anyone but another witcher.

Emhyr didn’t seem to notice Geralt staring—or if he did, he didn’t seem to _mind_.

“You’re welcome,” Geralt responded, finally looking away.

He was glad Emhyr was safe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, nerds! <3

Emhyr watched Geralt move about the room from his place on the bed, testing every ward he’d put up and hissing when each one of them reacted as it should have done, glowing bright for a moment and illuminating his eyes as though from inside.

Geralt’s magic was _different_ , Emhyr realised, now that he could make a direct comparison. Geralt’s felt… cleaner. Better contained. Safer.

Or perhaps _safer_ was just how Emhyr felt knowing Geralt was here.

He believed, now, that witchers could slay dragons if they put their minds to it. Geralt had been fierce, and graceful, and completely unafraid. Despite the fact that portal travel clearly made him ill, too.

That, Emhyr thought in hindsight, was not unheard of. A small number of people dealt poorly with them.

Geralt had been through that and _still_ come out ahead of four mercenaries and a court mage.

They had discovered papers among Braathens’ things that suggested the conspiracy being orchestrated against his father was much larger and further-reaching than Emhyr had imagined. Dozens of well-respected men and women, people who Emhyr had received advice from, whose children were widely considered strong options for his future partner.

As a result, Emhyr suddenly felt very alone in the world. All those people he had once trusted wanted him dead, or at least captured and held for long enough to sway his father.

And Geralt had saved him. Despite the fact that they hardly even counted as friends.

“These are all working,” Geralt said, heading back to the bed and sitting down on his own side of it.

They were to share now, by order of Emhyr’s mother.

Geralt was wearing yet another pair of his trousers, and no shirt, which appeared to be his preferred way to dress.

In the morning, Emhyr would tell him that as long as he covered his shoulders at breakfast, he could remain that way for the rest of the day.

Not only was it perfectly polite for a man in his position not to bother with a shirt if he didn’t _want_ one, but Emhyr would defend his right to do whatever he liked from here on out.

Emhyr was debating whether he should sleep naked—as he normally would have—or if that was likely to upset Geralt.

He continued to debate this as he watched Geralt stand again, untie his trousers and push them down over his hips, and then climb back in.

The opportunity to bathe together had come up earlier, and Emhyr had avoided it for fear of this moment. The moment when he would be entirely naked before Geralt and therefore open to the full weight of the witcher’s judgement.

In the beginning, the fear had seemed out of place. Nudity was common and acceptable in Nilfgaard, though he had initially told himself that it was concern for Geralt’s Northern sensibilities that had stopped him.

After he’d heard that Geralt was not _entirely_ uncomfortable bathing with his father, that should have changed. But it hadn’t. If anything, his aversion to it had become stronger.

He was now realising, with a slow, sinking feeling, as though his stomach was being drawn into quicksand, that he was afraid because he _wanted_ Geralt. And there was every chance that once he was entirely unclothed, any interest Geralt may have had would wane.

It wasn’t exactly that he thought he had anything to be ashamed of, but simply that he was aware a potential lover _could_ reject his body. And that he suspected a man like Geralt could pick and choose his lovers as he pleased, even in the North.

All the same, he now had little other choice, and if this was a road he _ever_ wished to travel, he would have to know Geralt’s reaction sooner or later.

Emhyr stood, fingers awkward on the ties of his own trousers, the knots suddenly an insurmountable obstacle as his hands shook.

He half-expected to be mocked for it, but Geralt was simply silent as he flexed his fingers a few times in the hopes of calming them to try again.

Nervousness was, at least, not what was making him shake. He was yet to recover from the shock of the day, which had not quite registered until he’d been alone and Geralt had been washing up.

There had been an attempt on his life. The first, he realised, of many yet to come. Any feeling of safety he’d enjoyed before now had been false, an illusion brought about by not fully understanding reality.

The moment Geralt had been out of his sight, Emhyr had been aware of how deeply, utterly vulnerable he was.

“Do you want some help?” Geralt asked, his tone gentle and concerned.

A brief flash of allowing the witcher to approach and undress him played in Emhyr’s head, the other man close enough for Emhyr to feel the warmth of his body, his stomach swooping as his mind, quite without permission, offered up the possibility that he might reach out to Geralt, kiss him, murmur against his lips that he wanted him desperately, tonight, _please_.

The warm weight of arousal settled deep in his belly at the thought.

“No,” Emhyr said, much too sharply. “No,” he repeated more gently. “I will manage.”

Geralt was silent for a few moments before he took another breath to speak. “You did well, earlier,” he said. “Headbutting the mercenary. That took guts.”

“I did not wish to die,” Emhyr said, finally managing to loosen the tie he’d been struggling with before.

He looked firmly away from Geralt as he undressed, ultimately unwilling to subject himself to the witcher’s first impression of him.

When he turned back, though, Geralt’s eyes were still on him, taking in his body without the faintest trace of shame.

Could he…?

“Couple of bruises here and there,” Geralt said.

Oh. Of course. He was still worried about Emhyr’s welfare, since that was his _job_.

“Nothing that won’t heal,” Emhyr responded. “I fared no worse than you did.”

“Yeah, but I’m _used_ to it.” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re being hard on yourself right now, but don’t be. You did much better than I expected, and I already had pretty high expectations for how you’d handle a crisis.”

“High praise,” Emhyr said, climbing cautiously into the bed.

He wanted Geralt.

But he had no idea how to pursue him, and while he was fairly certain he _had_ been propositioned—or at least, that Geralt had been hinting he was interested—before Braathens attacked, he worried now that whatever had been hanging between them had well and truly fallen, and he had not taken the chance to catch it.

A dull ache settled in the pit of his stomach.

“You survived,” Geralt murmured softly, meeting Emhyr’s gaze as he settled down, facing him. He doubted he would be able to sleep without being able to see the witcher until he closed his eyes. “Just remember that. You’re a survivor.”

_Survivor_.

Yes. That was something worth being.

Certainly a better option than victim.

“I have learned today that I can trust no one,” Emhyr said. “I knew. I have known my whole life that no one _could_ be trusted, but…”

“But today you were actually betrayed for the first time,” Geralt responded. “I get it.”

Yes. That was the problem. Distrust was not new, but real betrayal was. Up until today, it had been an abstract possibility.

Now it had affected Emhyr’s entire world. The list of traitors, once it was compiled, would be long.

“You can trust me,” Geralt spoke up after a long few moments of silence.

Emhyr nodded. That was, perhaps, the root cause of his sudden desire. As new as betrayal was to him, loyalty was equally so. Proof of loyalty, the absolute certainty that someone was truly on his side, and would stand with him when the time came.

He wanted to hold that feeling in his hand and never let go of it.

He wanted the part of Geralt that was already his, and the rest of him besides. To earn the remainder of his loyalty by deed.

And to taste his mouth, and touch his skin, and join with his body.

“Yes,” Emhyr said belatedly, his voice cracking. “Yes. I believe I can.”

And perhaps that would have to be enough.

***

Geralt was aware of Emhyr’s eyes on him the entire time he’d been training, but that wasn’t exactly unexpected, considering the circumstances. He’d been sticking close all day, and Geralt knew that was only half because his parents wanted him to.

_He_ wanted to stick close for his own reasons, and if anything, he was getting _harder_ to read as time went on.

They’d been getting somewhere before Emhyr had been kidnapped yesterday. Geralt knew he’d _finally_ gotten through, even if it was by accident, that Emhyr understood that if he wanted it, sex was on offer.

And he wanted it. Geralt had barely been able to sleep last night, bathed in the scent of Emhyr’s arousal and knowing it was directed at him.

He’d thought about reaching out a hundred times, but no. Not after Emhyr had already been suddenly grabbed once that day. Emhyr would have to come to him, or Geralt would just scare him off, and waiting for Emhyr to figure out how to seduce a witcher was agonising.

Especially since Geralt wasn’t exactly difficult to seduce. All Emhyr had to do was _say_ something. Make the first move. _Any_ first move, Geralt didn’t care.

The training dummy shattered as he hit it with an aard sign, as expected, and he was only doing it now to show off in front of Emhyr. Not that he was sure he could top saving his life, but the reminder that he knew what he was doing probably couldn’t hurt.

“Hey,” he called over to Emhyr, sheathing his sword and setting it down. “Want me to show you how to take someone out without headbutting them?”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow, but stood a moment later, making his way over and stopping a few feet away from Geralt. “I’m not sure I’m any match for a witcher,” he said.

“I’ll go easy,” Geralt promised. “But no pressure. You did just fine on your own.”

“Show me,” Emhyr said, curiosity lighting up his eyes.

“Okay. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, knees a little bent,” Geralt gestured in Emhyr’s direction, waiting for him to get into position and then circling him, making a soft sound of approval. He stopped in front of Emhyr, meeting his gaze again.

“This isn’t new to you,” Geralt said, realising how easy it was for Emhyr to take up a fighting stance.

“I was trained as a boy,” Emhyr said. “Everyone is. Even the crown prince. In case there’s ever a need to defend one’s home. The training is not extensive, but it is… adequate.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “At least you had the confidence to _do_ something about it.”

He paused to search Emhyr’s face carefully. “So then why pretend you needed me to show you?”

Emhyr swallowed, almost imperceptibly. “I have been unable to think of another way to get close to you,” he said, with what Geralt could tell was incredible courage.

A smile spread over his face. Courage like _that_ deserved a reward, and he’d been waiting for this a long time.

“Close to me,” he murmured, taking a half-step forward to close the gap between them, their chests almost touching. “How much closer were you thinking?”

Emhyr’s eyes widened, but lit up with wonder within a heartbeat.

They held each other’s gaze for a few long moments, and then Emhyr pounced. His enthusiasm more than made up for his lack of experience, lips crashing into Geralt’s hard enough to bruise, strong fingers threading into his hair, and all Geralt could think was _finally_.

He’d been expecting to do this since day one, and hadn’t understood Emhyr’s apparent lack of interest. Now, he got it. Not a lack of interest, but a lack of knowing what the hell he was doing.

“As close as two bodies can be,” Emhyr murmured against Geralt’s lips, their noses brushing together as he tilted his head to try a different angle, holding Geralt in place to press their lips together again, more carefully this time.

Geralt’s heart fluttered at the tiny, needy sound vibrating in the back of Emhyr’s throat, warmth flooding his belly at the thought of being the first person to show Emhyr all the pleasure he could get from his own body when he had another one to play with.

“If you will permit me,” he continued.

“Do I seem to be saying no?” Geralt asked.

Emhyr shook his head mutely. “No,” he said, relief pouring off him in almost-tangible waves.

“Come on,” Geralt said, grinning at him. “Unless you wanna do this in the courtyard.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut begins here :3

Geralt sealed their lips together the moment they were behind closed doors, and by the time Emhyr was naked, the pit of his belly was a furnace of need and desire. Every touch of Geralt’s skin sent sparks of pleasure skittering over his own, leaving it flushed and sensitive and alight with the urge for more. More of this, more of anything Geralt would give him.

Finally, Geralt eased him down onto the bed, gentler than Emhyr had been expecting, and straddled his hips, sitting lightly on his thighs. Emhyr looked up at him, fingers itching to reach out and touch, gaze trailing up his body until he met Geralt’s eyes.

“I have a _great_ view from up here,” Geralt murmured, obviously looking Emhyr up and down, the small smile on his lips never once faltering, his strange pupils widening until they were almost round. The surest sign of desire Emhyr had ever seen on anyone else’s face.

“You find me acceptable?” Emhyr asked, breath already coming in short, sharp pants.

Geralt snorted, splaying a hand over his belly, thumb stroking the soft skin there. “You’re perfect,” he said, lifting Emhyr’s hand with his free one, drawing it to his lips and kissing the knuckles. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

For a moment, Emhyr found it impossible to draw breath.

Geralt had nothing to gain from lying to him. There was no more political influence he could grab, no greater power. He had saved Emhyr’s life, and Emhyr would always owe him that, and he _knew_ it.

The witcher’s smile widened, and he turned Emhyr’s hand over to press a kiss to his wrist, lips lingering for a few heartbeats. “Excited?” he asked, smirking, his eyes glinting in the afternoon sun pouring through the windows behind the bed.

“You don’t need to ask that,” Emhyr said.

Geralt shook his head. “Nope. Even if I couldn’t see, I could _smell_ how aroused you are.”

“Smell?” Emhyr asked cautiously. Did that mean…?

A nod confirmed what Emhyr had just begun to worry about. “You smell incredible, by the way,” Geralt murmured, pressing his nose to Emhyr’s wrist this time and inhaling deeply. “I’ve been able to smell it every time. Since that first morning at breakfast. And I’ve been dying to do this since then.”

“Oh,” Emhyr murmured, feeling himself blush once more. He felt, at this point, as though he’d blushed more in the witcher’s company than he had in the entire rest of his life.

“Love it when you blush, too,” Geralt said, as though reading his mind, and perhaps Emhyr’s opinion of how well his complexion hid it had been miscalculated. He let go of Emhyr’s hand, only to immediately reach out and cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his now-burning cheekbone.

“This,” Geralt continued, trailing his fingers down Emhyr’s belly to brush just barely against his cock, making his breath hitch. “Is also nice. Thick. Great curve. Hard for me.” He grinned.

Emhyr swallowed thickly. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

The witcher’s entire face softened, his eyes so warm and open that Emhyr could do nothing but stare at them. “You’re not even close to my first,” Geralt admitted. “But I’ll take care of you.”

Emhyr nodded, believing that Geralt _would,_ indeed, take care of him. That he had nothing to fear, and that this would not be used against him.

A cry escaped him as Geralt’s fingers curled around the shaft of his cock. No other hand had ever touched him like this, and he was suddenly filled with gratitude that it was Geralt who had been the first.

He watched with wide eyes as Geralt stroked him, the sensation almost lost under the awe of seeing Geralt’s strong, sure hand wrapped around him. He could barely begin to fathom how he’d enticed this man into his bed, this man who could have had all of Nilfgaard worshipping at his feet but had chosen Emhyr.

“Sensitive,” Geralt murmured, as though it was the best quality a person could have. Emhyr nodded, his eyes watering at the sheer intensity of Geralt’s touch, breath coming in short, sharp pants.

A wicked grin spread over the witcher’s pretty features. He surged forward, catching Emhyr’s lips with his own, pressing against him from chest to hip, the sudden warmth knocking what little breath was left in Emhyr’s lungs out of him, his head spinning as Geralt kissed him.

There was no hurry to it. No urgency. Sweetness, instead, the kind of kiss Emhyr had long imagined lovers would share, lazy and directionless.

He moaned into Geralt’s mouth as the witcher’s hand brought both of their cocks together, the contrast between the roughness of his palm and the delicate skin of his cock making him squirm.

“So sweet,” Geralt purred, nuzzling Emhyr’s jaw as he rocked his hips, equally unhurried. “Bet you taste good all over.”

“You could… you could…” Emhyr stuttered, cheeks burning at the thought of what he suddenly wanted to ask of Geralt.

“Oh, I _will_ ,” Geralt said. “But not this time. You’re too wound up to enjoy it.”

Not this time. Implying another time.

That was almost too much to think of. Once might be explained away by curiosity, the urge to have Emhyr as a story to tell in darkened taverns over cards, but more than once…

More than once was the act of a lover.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Geralt said, kissing his way along Emhyr’s jaw.

“I cannot help _thinking_ ,” Emhyr defended, unsure whether or not Geralt was serious, whether this was perhaps an unattractive quality in a lover to the witcher.

Geralt snorted. “Of course you can’t,” he sighed, still rocking his hips lazily, their cocks slicked with precome now, fluids mingling, the _intimacy_ of it all making Emhyr’s heart pound in his chest.

“Then think about how warm my mouth is,” Geralt murmured, breathing hot against Emhyr’s ear, licking a stripe up his neck to demonstrate. Emhyr shivered, his hips jerking up into Geralt’s grip, hot arousal making his belly tight as he imagined the witcher between his legs, pretty yellow eyes looking up at him, glinting with mischief as his gorgeous, shockingly soft lips stretched around Emhyr’s cock.

“Think about how good it’d feel to be inside me,” he continued. “Think about how good I’d feel inside _you._ _”_

Emhyr moaned without entirely meaning to, his body flushing with pleasure at the idea of Geralt fucking him.

No, not fucking. Making slow, deliberate love to him, because Emhyr knew now that he could never have wanted something so simple as meaningless sex from anyone, and least of all Geralt, who he…

Cared for, greatly. Who he was grateful to, who had shown him loyalty in the face of the greatest threat of his life and who now shared his bed with unfeigned enthusiasm, something Emhyr had never been sure he would be able to experience.

“You like that,” Geralt said perceptively, thumbing the head of his cock and making him hiss, a hot spark of pleasure making his hips jerk again, forcing Emhyr to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from coming too soon. “We’d have to ease you into it. A witcher can go for hours without needing a break. We don’t tire easy.”

“Legendary stamina,” Emhyr said, suddenly understanding that remark.

Geralt grinned against his neck. “Legends are all true,” he murmured. “We’ve got a reputation in the North for being insatiable.”

Emhyr swallowed, suddenly unsure he would be enough to satisfy the witcher, inexperienced and thoroughly human as he was.

“So you can have me,” Geralt murmured, pressing a kiss to Emhyr’s jaw to punctuate the thought. “As often.” Another kiss. “As you want.”

A desperate, needy moan escaped Emhyr as Geralt sealed their lips together, his orgasm hitting him all at once, his back arching clear off the bed as he came over Geralt’s hand.

Wave after wave of pleasure rolled through him, the sensation a hundred times more intense than when he took himself in hand, the warmth of Geralt’s body drawing out the high, his hand wringing Emhyr dry, the soft cry as he came as well and the sudden shock of him spilling over Emhyr’s skin setting off another ripple of sensation, his hips jerking one last time before he sank deep into the mattress.

He panted for breath once he was finally finished, head spinning, the weight of Geralt’s body on top of him grounding. Something between joy and panic welled up in his stomach, an urgent, desperate feeling that he had no idea how to express other than by threading his fingers into Geralt’s hair, demanding another kiss. Slower, this time. More deliberate. Not a preamble to sex, but a desperate plea for more closeness, for Geralt not to leave him immediately.

Geralt hummed into his mouth, clearly happy to oblige, and Emhyr’s heart suddenly felt too big for his chest, as though it might burst out at any moment. The joy of having Geralt was agonising, but he wouldn’t have given up this moment for anything.

“Feeling okay?” Geralt murmured against his lips, rubbing their noses together, the gesture so soaked with affection that Emhyr’s heart swelled all over again, his chest tight with a wash of completely new _feelings_. He hadn’t been aware he could have so many at once until now.

“Yes,” he responded breathlessly, staring up into Geralt’s strange, mesmerising eyes. “Was I…?”

“You were perfect,” Geralt murmured, pecking him on the lips. “All I wanted was to see you happy.”

A lump formed in Emhyr’s throat, but he swallowed past it. “I will learn,” he promised.

“You will,” Geralt said easily. “But you’re perfect just as you are. I mean that. I get off on getting my partners off. And you make _incredible_ sounds.”

As was now customary for him, Emhyr’s cheeks burned.

Geralt only grinned in response.

“Come on, your majesty,” he said, climbing off Emhyr and rolling out of bed in one graceful motion, holding his hand out. “Bath time.”

***

Geralt let his eyes fall closed as he sealed his lips around the head of Emhyr’s cock, inching closer to the ledge the prince was sitting on, warm water sloshing around his chest as he moved. He smirked as Emhyr whined, running his hand up and down his tense thigh, soothing him gently.

It wasn’t exactly that Geralt actively sought out virgins to deflower, but showing Emhyr everything first definitely had its perks.

The salt-tang of precome hit his tongue, making him smirk at the thought of how eager Emhyr was for this, how simple it was to please him. This was a man who had the world at his fingertips, and he was coming undone under the attention of Geralt’s tongue. No skilled courtesan, no desperately-wanted lover. Not that Geralt was accustomed to _complaints_ about his performance in bed, but Emhyr was different.

Except in the ways that he was the same. Geralt was realising quickly that what Emhyr wanted was affection, and he couldn’t help giving him that.

He slid his hand all the way up Emhyr’s thigh to his hip, holding him firmly in place, and relaxed his throat to take him deeper until his nose was pressed against the young prince’s belly, the light dusting of hair there tickling the tip. Emhyr gasped, his thighs and stomach suddenly so tense he felt as though he was in danger of snapping, but Geralt knew that was a good sign.

He swallowed around him, rubbing his tongue against the underside of his cock, keeping this first time as gentle and easy as he could.

Geralt wrapped his free hand around his own cock, moaning in the back of his throat at the touch of his own hand, desperate and eager to come as well. There were few things he loved more than the taste and scent of a partner, especially one as surprisingly sweet as Emhyr. Every little sound he made was gorgeous, the tension in his body driving Geralt higher and higher, spurring him on.

Emhyr’s fingers threaded deep into his hair, tensing and tugging as he sucked harder, searched for sensitive spots.

“Geralt,” Emhyr murmured softly, prompting Geralt to look up at him.

The prince’s breath hitched as their eyes met, his pupils so wide that they’d almost swallowed the warm golden brown of his irises whole.

Geralt let his gaze fall slowly, savouring the salt-tang of precome as Emhyr leaked steadily into his mouth. Emhyr was as close to the edge as he was, racing toward it as Geralt tightened his throat, swallowed around him, jerked his own cock in time with his mouth, right on the edge, desperate to fall over it.

Emhyr gasped first, fingers tightening painfully in Geralt’s hair as he began to come, hips rocking forward for the first time, the iron control he’d been keeping hold of finally slipping from his grasp. The most gorgeous moan Geralt had ever heard escaped Emhyr as he spilled into Geralt’s mouth in long, hot spurts, the evidence that he’d waited so long for this hitting the back of Geralt’s throat.

His own orgasm hit in the next heartbeat, heat and pressure and need spilling over, his cock twitching in his hand as he finished himself off with short, quick, desperate strokes, drawing it out. Emhyr moaned again above him, Geralt swallowing greedily around him, humming softly at the taste and sucking him clean.

Geralt let Emhyr’s cock fall free of his lips with a wet pop, turning his head to kiss Emhyr’s thigh and then meeting his eyes while he licked his swollen lips clean.

Emhyr stared at him as though he’d never seen a witcher before, his gaze boring into Geralt’s eyes, holding him in place. Then, a moment later, he gripped Geralt by the hair, tugging until he stood and then pulling him down for a kiss, his tongue delving deep into Geralt’s mouth.

Tasting himself on someone else’s tongue, Geralt realised as Emhyr licked at his palate. Both of his broad hands came up to frame Geralt’s face, holding him in place, kisses growing lazier as they went on, the concept of time falling away as Geralt drank in the taste of Emhyr’s sweet lips, knowing he was the first to enjoy them like this, knowing he’d always have this one small part of him.

Eventually, they both sank into the warm water, and to Geralt’s genuine surprise, Emhyr allowed himself to be held, settling between Geralt’s legs on a wide underwater ledge, leaning back against his chest.

Geralt drew circles on his belly, wondering how long it took a Nilfgaardian man in the first glorious flush of adulthood to recover after a second round in the space of half an hour.

His own cock was already starting to show an interest again, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t go without addressing.

“That _cannot_ be what it feels like,” Emhyr said as he shifted his weight, rubbing the firm curve of his backside against Geralt’s half-hard cock.

“Witcher stamina.” Geralt shrugged. “And you’re pressed up against me naked, and you smell of me and arousal and I’m just… witchers have a reputation for a reason.”

“Insatiable,” Emhyr murmured, repeating what Geralt had said earlier.

“I’m _satisfied_.” Geralt pressed a kiss to Emhyr’s shoulder. “You taste incredible, too,” he added, laving Emhyr’s shoulder with his tongue before pressing a trail of wet kisses up his neck, stopping behind his ear.

He could hear Emhyr’s pulse pounding, feel the tension in his body, smell renewed arousal rolling off his skin, so he knew that even if he was too worn out to go again right now, Emhyr was still enjoying this.

“So sweet.” Geralt hummed as he nuzzled the back of Emhyr’s neck, drinking in every little soft, needy exhale, every jump in his pulse, the gorgeous, intoxicating scent of him filling his senses. He could have done this for days.

It wasn’t unusual for him to really indulge in a partner, take everything he could get in terms of sensual pleasure, but Emhyr was… different. Geralt couldn’t remember ever being captivated like this before, his heart hurting in anticipation of having to say goodbye.

Although, maybe he _didn_ _’t_ have to. After all, Emhyr would probably always have use for someone to protect him.

He could stay. There was little enough work for witchers as it was, and he’d be stupid to throw away an opportunity like this.

Especially since his stomach ached at the thought of it all being over soon.

Geralt held Emhyr a little tighter, promising himself that if Emhyr asked, he’d agree to stay by his side.


	7. Chapter 7

“Don’t think about it,” Geralt murmured into Emhyr’s ear as he pushed him down onto the mattress, pinning his body in place, kissing his way down Emhyr’s neck.

But Emhyr couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it.

He’d seen fifteen people executed today. Many of whom he’d taken advice from in the past. How long had they been planning to see him dead?

And those were only the heads of the conspiracy against him and his family. There were many others being sent to prisons or forced into exile for what they’d done, stripped of land and title, the ripples of this event washing through all of Nilfgaard and leaving chaos in their wake.

“It might have been better for the people if they’d been allowed to succeed,” Emhyr said.

Geralt stopped dead, raising his head to stare into Emhyr’s eyes. “No,” he said seriously. “ _No._ ”

“Fully half of the most important and ancient families in Nilfgaard were decimated one way or another today,” Emhyr argued, his stomach tight at the thought of disappointing Geralt, but his heart heavy.

“Shouldn’t have plotted to kill you, then,” Geralt said, surprisingly gentle. He reached out, stroking his fingers through Emhyr’s hair. “They got what they signed up for. They put themselves in a position where it was you or them. You just happened to have a more useful ally at the right moment.”

_You are more to me than an ally_ , Emhyr didn’t say. _Couldn_ _’t_ say.

Geralt’s task was finished. The danger had passed.

He would leave soon, and take a piece of Emhyr’s heart with him.

“Don’t think about it,” Geralt advised again, seizing Emhyr’s lips before he could voice another objection.

A moment later, there was a small bottle of oil in his hand, the sunlight streaming through the windows behind the bed making it glow.

“Thoughts?” Geralt asked, smirking. Undoubtedly, he’d noticed Emhyr’s rapt attention on the bottle.

“I want you to have me,” Emhyr said. There would be very, _very_ few chances in his life to experience this, and if Geralt was leaving soon, it was now or never.

He would not have the courage to ask again.

“You sure?” Geralt asked, running his free hand up Emhyr’s side, splaying his fingers wide over his ribs. “Because we don’t _have_ to.”

“Please,” Emhyr said, and he so rarely had to _plead_ with anyone that the word tasted strange in his mouth, and he worried that he had shown too much of himself in saying it.

A warm smile spread over Geralt’s face. “Of course, your majesty.”

He had been nothing if not amorous and accommodating over the past week while the loyalest men in Imperial service had helped Emhyr’s father piece together exactly who should be blamed and what should be done with them. When Emhyr had been called to testify, he had stood with him.

And again, today, he had been steadfastly at Emhyr’s side, watching grimly as Emhyr was expected to do.

“I wanted to hold your hand,” Geralt murmured, pouring oil over his fingers. “But I knew better.”

“The crown prince cannot appear weak,” Emhyr said, watching as Geralt gripped under his knee and raised it, letting him do whatever he wanted. Geralt could be trusted. With this, with anything.

“You’re not weak.” Geralt murmured, pressing a kiss to the joint as his slick fingers slipped under Emhyr’s body. His breath hitched as they brushed over him, teasing sensitive places that made his cock twitch in anticipation.

“Callousness isn’t strength,” the witcher continued. “It takes more strength to care than it does not to.”

“But you believe-” Emhyr paused to gasp as Geralt circled him with the tip of a finger. “You believe justice was done?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, meeting Emhyr’s eyes. “I don’t know them. I only know you.”

He bent down, kissing his way along Emhyr’s thigh, lips and tongue torturing the sensitive flesh. “I only care about you.”

Emhyr gasped again, hips arching off the bed as Geralt breached him, licking a broad stripe up his cock at the same moment. Need and want flooded his belly, the hot weight of blood flowing south making him squirm.

“Okay?” Geralt’s voice rumbled against the skin of Emhyr’s thigh, rocking in and out of his body slowly and patiently.

“Yes,” Emhyr gritted out, his whole being focused on the way Geralt was touching him, the earlier events of the day fading from his mind. Exactly as Geralt intended, he assumed.

“I wish you could see how you look right now,” Geralt murmured, still teasing, easing more fingers inside Emhyr’s body as he relaxed, breathless and boneless and eager for whatever Geralt might be about to do to him.

Well. He had a fair idea what it would involve. The _concept_ of sex was by no means new to him, only the reality.

“Flushed and panting and so _pretty,_ _”_ Geralt cooed. “Might just keep you like this. Stare at you all day.”

Emhyr’s stomach bottomed out. Geralt liked looking at him? It didn’t sound like flattery.

The past week had been a haze of touching and kissing and exploring, sensual and comforting, and Geralt was still here. Still with him. Still showing desire in every way Emhyr knew to recognise it, and probably more besides.

“No objection?” Geralt teased. “Not gonna beg for more?”

Emhyr blinked at him. “Do I need to?”

Geralt had pushed him to the point where he was not afraid to _demand_ more, reach out and ask for what he wanted, even initiate things for himself when he wanted Geralt and Geralt seemed otherwise unoccupied. He had single-handedly awoken in Emhyr the desire to touch and taste and _feel_ , rather than only gaze and fantasise.

“You really don’t,” Geralt said, pulling his fingers out and leaving Emhyr feeling suddenly empty, though he did not _normally_ have half the witcher’s hand inside him and had never been aware of the absence before.

“Could get used to seeing you like this,” he added, moving between Emhyr’s legs. Emhyr wrapped them both around his waist, just barely stopping himself from locking them at the ankles to keep the witcher there.

He was not the kind of man anyone could keep, and Emhyr knew it.

The thought of saying goodbye tugged at the pit of his stomach.

Geralt pressed against him, hot and _much_ bigger than he’d looked a moment ago. Emhyr forced himself to breathe, belly tight with anticipation.

Perhaps there should have been fear, or nervousness, but all Emhyr could summon was _need_. Need to have Geralt like this, for him to be the only person who would ever do this, something Emhyr could have for himself long after the witcher left.

He gave Geralt a small nod of assent, meeting his gaze and holding it as the witcher rocked his hips forward, guiding the tip of his cock into Emhyr’s waiting, desperate body. Then, finally, he let his eyes fall closed, biting his lip as Geralt filled him inch by inch, breathing deeply in an effort to force his body to want this as much as his mind did.

“Thinking too much again,” Geralt murmured, the faintest hint of a strain in his voice. His broad hand splayed over Emhyr’s belly, the warmth and weight of it grounding, and Emhyr finally managed to relax.

Geralt eased himself the rest of the way into Emhyr’s body in one fluid motion. The sudden sensation of being _full_ , in a way he’d never quite experienced it before, left Emhyr gasping for breath.

“Let _go_ ,” Geralt murmured, rocking his hips, and for the first time, all other thoughts fled Emhyr’s mind. All he could think of was _Geralt_ , and how shockingly good he felt, and the way every little movement sent sparks of sensation bouncing around inside him, too much and not enough all at once.

His head fell heavily into the pillows beneath him, and his back arched, and Geralt kept rocking into him. Slowly, patiently at first, and then harder, faster, building up the pace as Emhyr’s heartbeat sped up, his breath catching in his chest, belly tight with need and want, cock leaking freely, his fingers itching too touch but curled too tightly into the bedclothes beneath him to even consider moving.

At some point he’d started pushing _back_ , forcing Geralt as deep inside him as he could get with every stroke, biting his lip at the pinch and burn of the very thickest part of his cock as it stretched him, but coming to anticipate it soon enough, toes curling as Geralt’s balls brushed against him, their bodies as close as two people could physically be.

This was what poets talked about. The crested heights of pleasure, the absolute, unmitigated joy of simply _being_ with someone, someone who was special and dear to him, someone he…

Emhyr swallowed around that thought, forcing himself not to give it form even in the safety of his own mind. He couldn’t have it. Not that. Not with this man, possibly not with anyone.

He groaned as Geralt leaned forward, pressing hot, wet kisses along his jaw and then licking his way into Emhyr’s mouth, hips jerking now, demanding more, and Emhyr gave it to him, lifting his knees as far as they’d go and ignoring the strain, knowing already that he would feel this in the morning and looking forward to it, to the bone-deep ache of having Geralt all to himself, just for this moment.

It would be enough. It would _have_ to be enough.

The witcher’s cock struck something deep inside him, a pressure point that made him see stars dancing in front of his eyes, the sudden shock of pleasure enough to shut his brain off for long seconds. Geralt made a tiny sound of triumph and angled his hips to skim over the same spot again, and again, until blood was rushing in Emhyr’s ears and his mind was finally, wonderfully silent.

Emhyr cried out as Geralt’s sword-callused palm wrapped around his cock, the familiar ridges of it making him spill clear fluids all over his own belly as an automatic response, his hips thrusting up for more friction, harder, faster, body desperate by now to finish, and finish well.

Geralt was panting into his mouth now, every breath catching in his throat, cut-off moans at the top of every stroke, eyes closed and lower lip held between his lips. Bliss, if ever Emhyr had seen it. Sheer pleasure.

Pleasure because of _him_ , pleasure at being with him.

No, he reminded himself. At being with a warm, willing body.

He did not doubt that Geralt cared for him, in some way, but he _did_ know that he was flattering himself if he thought the depths of Geralt’s feelings for him might ever hope to match his own.

And all the same, Geralt pushed him higher and higher, until his head spun and his temples throbbed, every breath forced out of him by the collision of the witcher’s hips, the bed frame straining and groaning underneath them, though Emhyr was certain it had seen worse from previous owners, one of whom was his father.

He whimpered with need as Geralt thumbed the head of his cock, smearing free-flowing precome down the length, tugging and jerking so he couldn’t even hope to catch his breath. The familiar pressure of an approaching orgasm seemed to fill Emhyr from the base of his throat to his knees, his whole body heavy and too hot, his skin a size too small, need welling up inside him, filling him to bursting.

The whole world tilted under him as the pressure burst, a cry escaping his lips as his hips jerked up into Geralt’s hand, spilling over his own belly and Geralt’s knuckles in forceful spurts that made tears well up in his eyes with the intensity of them, Geralt’s cock striking that same sensitive place again. Emhyr gasped for air, his whole body throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm as Geralt finally came inside him, a warm rush that perhaps should have felt unpleasant but only served to leave Emhyr feeling thoroughly, utterly wrecked.

This, he realised, was the emotional release he needed. Another man might have wept, but another man did not have Geralt of Rivia to grace their bed and exhaust their body.

He was thankful for everything Geralt had given him. For the way the witcher anticipated his needs and met them with such ease it seemed as though it was in his very nature to do so.

The loss of Geralt’s cock made him hiss with the sudden discomfort, but Geralt kissed him in the next heartbeat, easing Emhyr’s thighs down from around his waist, rubbing and soothing as he shushed and gentled.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured, thumb coming up to stroke Emhyr’s jaw. “You’re gonna want a long, hot soak after this. You’ll hate me in the morning.”

“I will not hate you,” Emhyr said, though he already suspected that he was likely to be in previously unexperienced pain in the morning.

For the evening, he was happily sated, and his body felt heavy and sleepy, and his mind was still quiet. Still thinking only of the feel of Geralt’s skin against his own, the warmth of his body, the taste of his mouth.

Sleep would come easily and be peaceful, and for that, Emhyr would have given Geralt anything he asked.

***

“Falling asleep before taking a bath was a mistake,” Emhyr complained as Geralt climbed into the hot water with him, sighing happily as his permanently-aching muscles relaxed.

Some part of him wanted to be sorry, but he couldn’t help enjoying this a little bit. Emhyr would bounce right back once he’d had taken a break—which he definitely needed to do more often—and meanwhile, knowing that _he_ _’d_ done this to him was kind of hot. Not that he wanted Emhyr to suffer, but he _did_ want to leave a little bit of a mark on him.

Geralt didn’t usually think of himself as all that possessive—he’d never had anything to be possessive _about_ —but Emhyr was different. There was just something… _something_.

Nothing Geralt could name. Nothing he was brave enough to look that closely at.

But something, nonetheless.

“You’ll feel better after. At least you didn’t have to get the water yourself.”

Emhyr snorted, taking the opportunity to rest his head against Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt desperately wanted to wash his hair, but he wasn’t sure how to ask if that’d be okay. He wasn’t sure he _should_ ask.

“We can’t all be born princes,” Emhyr said. “I do not pretend to know hardship. I doubt I’d last long as a witcher.”

“I dunno,” Geralt shrugged. “Witchers are mostly scrappy kids, orphaned or abandoned, but you’re no delicate wilting flower, either. But you don’t _want_ to be a witcher. We’re a dying breed.”

“Are you all white-haired?” Emhyr asked.

Geralt had been waiting for him to give in to his curiosity, so he had answers ready. “No. Just me, as far as I know. I was an experiment.”

“So not all witchers are like you?”

“Thinking about building a collection?” Geralt chuckled. “No. One of a kind, that’s me. Think that’s why your dad picked me, honestly.”

Fergus’ comment about Geralt being exotic enough for Emhyr’s tastes still surfaced in his mind again. He’d been _right,_ obviously. Even if it’d taken Emhyr a little while to come around to the idea.

“I like the idea of having known the most unusual witcher,” Emhyr responded.

Geralt’s stomach dropped.

_Having known_.

_He_ _’d_ known this was coming, of course. Witchers didn’t… marry princes, or whatever. They didn’t marry at all, they didn’t stay in one place, they didn’t settle down with the intention of keeping one person happy and safe for life.

Even if he’d already told himself that multiple partners were okay in Nilfgaard. That Emhyr could still have his princess, and Geralt too, and that would be okay. Fergus had other lovers, and so did Efa. He’d seen them with his own eyes, acknowledged in public. Their marriage seemed happy, but the fact that they weren’t stuck with each other and no one else seemed to _help_ that.

Emhyr could have had that, too, and while Geralt knew he was stupid to have hoped for it… some part of him had been coming up with ways to stay.

None of which mattered if Emhyr wanted him to go.

_I could love you_ , Geralt thought desperately, the words almost escaping him as they popped up in his mind, so bright and intense.

_I love you_ , he corrected, heart clenching tight in his chest.

Love, he’d had plenty of. A whole family of witchers, difficult and brooding and strange as they were. But this was _different_. It was new and exciting and it made his stomach hurt, and he wanted to keep it.

“Where will you go?” Emhyr spoke up again like a knife to the heart. “When you leave?”

“No idea,” Geralt said past the lump in his throat. “Wherever there’s work.”

“It must be getting hard to find, now,” Emhyr murmured, shuffling just a little closer.

Geralt couldn’t deny him that. Not when he knew his last moment with Emhyr was fast approaching. Not when he knew he was on the verge of losing this forever.

“It is,” Geralt said, wrapping an arm around him, holding him just a little too tight. If Emhyr noticed, though, he didn’t complain. “But a witcher’s place is on the Path.”

“Of course.” Emhyr paused a moment, and then continued. “I will see to it that your reward is ready for you, so you may leave whenever you please.”

_As soon as possible_ , in other words. _Your work here is done_.

No one ever liked it when a witcher outstayed his welcome, so Geralt tried not to.

Fine. He’d go.

He’d go, and Emhyr would stay, and their paths probably wouldn’t ever cross again. There was no use for witchers in Nilfgaard, after all.

Not even if Geralt wanted to stay.

“Thank you,” he managed eventually. He should never have let himself fantasise about more. All he was to Emhyr was a mercenary, someone hired to fulfill a role. He’d been fun, and maybe even a little important, but not…

Not _worthy_. He’d never be worthy of the crown prince of Nilfgaard.

“You should write to me,” Emhyr said. “When you have the chance. Soon all of the North will have a reliable courier system, thanks to Nilfgaard. I’d like to hear about your adventures. I’ll give you a seal that will ensure your letters make it to my desk.”

“Sure,” Geralt agreed, though he was a long way from sure about anything. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to write to Emhyr after this. He wasn’t convinced he’d have the courage.

He turned his head, and kissed Emhyr’s temple, and shoved the raw, aching part of his heart aside with all his strength.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys sorry this is late I went back to work and then suddenly all the time was gone :3
> 
> Uhhh you might wanna grab tissues for this one.

Geralt had not asked to stay.

Emhyr had plotted a hundred thousand ways to make it happen, positions to offer him, promises to make, but Geralt had not once indicated that he _wanted_ the offers, or the promises.

And now he was leaving, and all there was left for Emhyr do to was say goodbye.

“Thank you,” he said instead, meeting Geralt’s strange eyes for what he realised now would be the last time. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

All of a sudden, Geralt took both of his hands.

Emhyr’s heart fluttered in his chest at the contact, surprise making his stomach twist.

They’d never touched like this. Certainly not in public.

Despite exploring each other’s bodies with great enthusiasm, simple hand-holding had not come up. Normally, Emhyr thought, it was reserved for _lovers_.

Lovers in love. With genuine affection between them.

He felt the callouses of Geralt’s fingers as subtly as he could, committing them to memory.

Geralt had not asked to stay, and so he would go.

“My pleasure,” he said, squeezing Emhyr’s fingers.

But they were not in love.

 _Emhyr_ was in love, but he had seen no indication that it went both ways.

“You will _always_ be welcome in Nilfgaard,” his father said from behind him, placing a hand on Emhyr’s shoulder. “A warm bath and a warm bed will always await you across the empire and in the palace.”

Emhyr’s stomach twinged again.

His bed, he expected, would feel very cold indeed. And he could not imagine warming it with another.

Geralt, of course, would have no trouble doing so. Even before he’d left the confines of the city walls, he would be faced with a glut of offers. Anyone he could have wanted.

Emhyr had been stupid to think that _anyone_ might ever have been him. Not for more than a few days.

Not that he doubted Geralt’s sincerity or affection. He believed he had a place in the witcher’s heart.

It was simply not the place he _wanted_.

“Try not to piss anyone else off,” Geralt said warmly, squeezing Emhyr’s hands one final time before dropping them. “You have to promise me you’ll live a long, happy life.”

Emhyr nodded, though he was not certain he was telling the truth. Right now, it felt as though Geralt was taking his happiness away with him.

“Good. Take care, your majesty.”

He backed away a pace, leaving the air in front of Emhyr suddenly cold, and then walked to the horse he had been gifted.

Emhyr stood and watched as he nudged the horse into action, petting it fondly, and disappeared through the palace gates.

The sound they made as they closed behind him was one, Emhyr suspected, he would wince at for quite a while to come.

His mother’s scent caught his attention, and he realised that she had been standing beside him for some time.

Everyone else had dispersed.

“Have I ever told you the fable of the cat?” she asked mildly.

Emhyr glanced at her, shaking his head. He’d never heard of such a story.

“A hunter who lived alone in the woods stumbled across an abandoned kitten one day, all on its own and without any hope of survival without her,” she began. “So she took it home and cared for it, raised it, and kept it with her always as her loyal companion. They ate together, slept together, and shared a life together. She loved the now-grown cat with all her heart.

“But the hunter saw that the cat wished to see the wider world. It would peer through the slats of the window, chirrup at the birds, try to escape through the door when the hunter left or returned. She realised then that it was a wild thing that could not be tamed or owned, no matter how much she loved it. So one day, with a heavy heart and tears in her eyes, she lifted the cat up and took it outside, setting it down in front of her hut.

“For a moment, the cat hesitated, but then, to the hunter’s dismay, bounded off into the woods, disappearing completely.

“The hunter wept. This creature she had given so much love to had abandoned her at the first chance! It clearly never thought anything of her, despite everything they’d shared. She swore never to love again, because it only led to heartbreak.”

Ah. Emhyr began to see the point of the story, and wondered how his mother saw so easily into his heart. She had always had a talent for that.

“Days passed, and the hunter saw no sign of the cat. She assumed it gone forever, until one night, as she was coming home, a small white streak shot past her into the hut.”

“The cat?” Emhyr asked, understanding now where this tale was going.

“The cat,” his mother agreed. “Returned with a pheasant in its mouth, an offering for the hunter it loved so dearly. And so they lived happily ever after, and the cat came and left as it pleased, but it always returned.”

Emhyr swallowed. It was a nice tale, but…

“If you love something,” his mother said. “You must let it go. You can only know it was truly yours if it comes back to you.”

***

By the time he was in Nazair, Geralt still hadn’t managed to write to Emhyr.

He’d tried. He’d sat down at a tiny, cramped desk in a tiny, cramped room, lit a candle, stretched his fingers so there was some hope his handwriting would be legible, and sat with his pen poised over an ink pot, completely at a loss for what to say.

Not that he didn’t have _plenty_ of things to share. He wanted to tell Emhyr about all the things he’d seen for the first time that were undoubtedly familiar to a Nilfgaardian prince. The people he’d met and the creatures he’d seen, the way people dressed… all of it.

Except he wanted to do it _in person_ , and he wanted Emhyr to explain all of it to him in his deceptively soft voice and charming accent, pausing occasionally to decide on a Nord word and then getting sidetracked by explaining the Nilfgaardian one he wanted to use.

As hard as he’d tried not to, he still missed Emhyr.

So now he was sitting in a tavern, working on getting as drunk as possible in the hopes that he’d feel a little better with a hangover than he did without one, aware that everyone in the place was staring at him.

Not that any of this was unusual.

“Master vatt’ghern?” the barmaid—a pretty girl with flame-red hair and sweet, upturned lips who didn’t really look like she was from around here—spoke up.

 _Vatt_ _’ghern_. The Nilfgaardian word for witcher, Emhyr had taught him.

Hearing it made his stomach hurt.

The Nazairi dialect was just different enough from the one of Nilfgaard proper that he hadn’t actually heard any of his favourite words—the ones that had sounded the prettiest in Emhyr’s warm voice, despite it being a language of harsh consonants that lent themselves to being spat at people, rather than purred.

Emhyr had made it sound beautiful, when he was really trying, and Geralt suspected that was because he loved it so much. He loved his city, and his people.

He realised belatedly that he’d been staring at the woman instead of answering.

“Uh, yes?”

“Are you…” she paused, clearly searching for the words in Common Nord. Geralt didn’t have the heart to tell her he probably spoke enough of her language to understand. He didn’t want to hear it right now.

“You are the white-haired vatt’ghern who saved the prince,” she said, and Geralt knew she didn’t _mean_ it to, but it hit him like a blow to the chest.

“Yes,” he responded, since there was no point in lying. She knew who he was.

Her whole face lit up for a moment, but then a puzzled expression took the place of her smile. “He owes you his life.”

Geralt shook his head. “I got paid. No one owes me anything.”

“But he loves you,” she said, eyes wide.

“I don’t think…” Geralt began, but was silenced when she pressed a thin booklet into his hand.

“I read,” she said. “In here, about the two of you. Your love.”

Geralt looked at the volume he’d been given, recognising his and Emhyr’s names on the front but not _quite_ understanding the poetic value of the title, he suspected.

“This is fiction,” he said, almost certain it was.

“It is by one of the empress’ closest lovers. Were you and Prince var Emreis not together?”

Geralt looked down at the little booklet in his hand, too curious now about the contents to pass it back.

He also wasn’t sure he should confirm for a barmaid he’d never met that he’d been fucking the prince.

Although, he’d been brought to the palace in the first place under the guise of being there for exactly that, so… maybe it was fine?

It was probably fine. Emhyr hadn’t tried to hide Geralt even once, and that really should have been a clue. Geralt had been too busy absorbing everything he could that he hadn’t really noticed that it wasn’t so much an open secret as not a secret at all.

He hadn’t… quite… expected to inspire stories that were printed for mass consumption, though.

He hadn’t expected the palace to allow it, though it occurred to him that Fergus hadn’t seemed overly concerned about appearances. Not in this way, in any case.

Hell, maybe Emhyr would be an easier sell to the right princess at the right time if there was literature going around about what kind of lover he was.

“Can I read this?” Geralt asked. “I promise I’ll tell you which parts are true when I’m done.”

“Keep it and tell me in the morning,” the girl said, and then cleared her throat delicately. “You’ll want to read it alone.”

Geralt frowned, unsure what she meant, but passed the remainder of his drink on to the person beside him and took the booklet back to his room, running his fingers over what Emhyr had decided, eventually, was called _paper_.

He understood within two paragraphs why he was reading it alone.

Part of him had known that the Nilfgaardians _liked_ him, especially the way he looked, but he hadn’t quite realised how close the attention to detail was. Written from the perspective of Efa’s lover—who Geralt was thinking of riding all the way back to Nilfgaard to give a stern talking to—it mostly hinted at things that had gone on between them.

… but it did it in graphic detail, and while it wasn’t _quite_ what had gone on, it felt like it could have happened. It described the way the two of them had grown closer, saw right through Geralt in terms of how fascinated he’d been by Emhyr from their first meeting, and had some inventive ideas about the use of particular pieces of furniture that Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look at again.

The worst part, though, wasn’t the sex scenes being imagined from the perspective of the author, who admitted freely and often that it was only _imaginings,_ or sometimes hinted they’d been overheard.

Which, maybe. Geralt’s favourite thing was pushing Emhyr to be a little vocal, and he was almost certain that attendants had seen them too caught up with each other to even notice they were there. Nilfgaardian servants were practically ghosts when they wanted to be.

No, the worst part was the ending.

The part where Emhyr had wept as Geralt left, and now sat out on a high balcony of an evening, watching the stars rise and wondering if the witcher still saw the same ones he did, or if their worlds were now so far apart that even the sky was different.

Geralt looked out the little window of his room, and his heart hurt as he wondered the same.

If there was a chance—any chance at all—that the last part was true…

He had to go back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me disgustingly long to finish??? My excuse is that time is meaningless.

Emhyr was woken by a hand on his shoulder, the surprise of it making him jump as his mind went from the depths of sleep to fully awake and alert in the space of a heartbeat.

“Your majesty,” a young, wide-eyed attendant—not more than sixteen or seventeen—said. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Emhyr blinked, taking in the just barely breaking dawn and frowning. No one would be here to see him this early, and if they _were_ , they would have been made to wait.

Unless…

“Emhyr,” a familiar, rough-accented voice called out.

Emhyr’s heart threatened to beat its way out of his ribcage.

He climbed out of bed in a hurry, hardly believing what he his eyes were telling him.

Geralt stood in the doorway to his rooms, still in the mismatched armour he’d left the palace wearing, his eyes glinting in the dark like those of a cat.

A cat.

How fitting.

“Geralt,” Emhyr murmured, afraid that even saying his name would cause the illusion to evaporate.

Instead, Geralt’s face broke into a warm smile.

“Hi,” the witcher said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh…”

“You’ve returned,” Emhyr said, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

Geralt had come back. He had been let go, and he had come back anyway, and…

The rest of the thought was wiped from Emhyr’s mind as the witcher closed the distance between them, sweeping Emhyr backward and onto the bed again, pinning him with his body as he pulled his gloves off.

The first electric touch of Geralt’s rough fingers against Emhyr’s sensitive skin made him gasp, arching up into it, his body already desperate for more. He had ached for this since the moment Geralt left, and had believed since then that he would never have it again.

But Geralt had come back.

“Will you stay?” Emhyr asked, giving voice to a question he was still afraid would have an answer he couldn’t bear to hear.

“Yes.” Geralt swooped in, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that was more teeth than tongue, aggressive and possessive, hard and eager enough to leave Emhyr squirming with need under him as he softened it.

“Why didn’t you just _ask_?” he paused, looking down at Emhyr with his brows drawn together.

“I assumed it was understood that you were welcome. I prompted you with questions about how hard it would be to find work. I… I gave you my personal seal… I didn’t know how else I could make myself clear.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, and then sighed. “How can a man as smart as you also be as _stupid_ as you?” he asked.

Emhyr wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“I love you,” Geralt said, so softly Emhyr might have missed it if he hadn’t been staring at the witcher’s mouth. “But I wasn’t sure I was allowed to.”

Emhyr’s heart lurched in his chest, clenching tight as though Geralt had shoved his hand inside and squeezed.

“I am honoured,” he managed, blood rushing in his ears as his head spun at the enormity of the gift Geralt was offering him.

Love.

“And you are allowed, of course,” he continued, wanting to reach out and grab the offer with both hands. “I would have you by my side until the end of my days.”

Geralt surged forward and kissed him again as he began to shed his armour. The buckles and clasps and straps gave Emhyr some pause, but he worked on them enthusiastically, pulling piece after piece off until Geralt was unclothed, unprotected, truly naked before him.

And he, in turn, was naked before Geralt. Offering all of himself as Geralt had done.

Slow, needy kisses turned quickly into frantic touching and groping, hands roaming over sensitive skin, sparks of pleasure passing between them, bouncing along Emhyr’s spine with every touch and kiss Geralt bestowed on him, gift after gift. He would become spoiled, at this rate. Unable or unwilling to be without his witcher.

“I’ll stay,” Geralt murmured, his fingers curling around the two of them, hips rocking against Emhyr’s. “Not so bad, belonging to a prince.”

“You are no mere possession,” Emhyr responded, back arching into Geralt’s touch, eager for more. He’d missed this. A handful of days, barely a week, and he’d _missed_ it. Ached for Geralt daily, constantly, not only for this but for simple companionship, for the sound of his breathing, for the knowledge that he was within reach.

Geralt laughed, kissing his way along Emhyr’s neck, nuzzling his ear. “No,” he whispered. “Because you’re _mine_ , too.”

Stars exploded behind Emhyr’s eyelids as he came, unexpectedly, the knot of tension and grief and anxiety and _need_ he’d been carrying from the moment Geralt left suddenly unravelling, his hips arching off the bed as he spilled over his own belly, and Geralt’s.

Geralt followed in short order, groaning deeply as he finished, burying his face against Emhyr’s neck.

In the aftermath, Emhyr was pinned under Geralt’s weight, and he wouldn’t have wanted to be any other way. This, he thought, was the place he belonged.

“Feel better?” Geralt asked, his voice rough.

Judging by the way he smelled, he hadn’t rested in some time.

“Yes,” Emhyr said. “Yes.”

“Good.” Geralt rolled over, but not so far that he wasn’t still making skin contact. “I need a nap.”

Emhyr snorted, but curled up next to him without a moment’s hesitation.

He would put up with the smell if it meant he got to keep this.

Besides, Geralt would undoubtedly be eager for a bath when he woke, and Emhyr had no intention of missing that.

***

“He seems happy,” Fergus said, nodding to his son across the ballroom.

“He _is_ happy,” Efa responded, grinning broadly. Emhyr looked at his lover as though the sun rose whenever he entered a room, and that was how it was _supposed_ to be. Young love should have been all-consuming.

It would change, as time went on. They would become more comfortable with time apart, they would likely each take other lovers, but this love, this would anchor them. They would _always_ have each other’s hearts.

All the trouble she’d gone to in nudging them toward this moment was worth it to see her son so filled with joy.

“The witcher, for all his grace in a fight, _cannot_ dance,” Fergus pointed out as Geralt once again bumped into Emhyr’s chest, trying to move the wrong way.

Both young men burst into laughter, Emhyr giving a good-natured, short-lived lecture on what he was doing wrong and why, and then trying again.

He _was_ getting it, Efa thought. She suspected that Geralt was only pretending to be slow so he could surprise Emhyr when the moment when this _mattered_ came.

“He will learn,” she said, certain this was true. “He will learn because he is in love, and he is the kind of man who would do anything for love.”

“Emhyr has him,” she continued, taking her husband’s hand. “He has Geralt’s heart, and that is something, I think, that anyone would be very lucky to call their own.”

Fergus hummed, drawing Efa’s hand to his mouth and kissing the knuckles. “He is lucky to have someone he loves so well as his first lover. Just as I am lucky to have you.”

Efa chuckled. “I see the atmosphere of the occasion is starting to get to you, dear husband.”

“I was never sure I’d see the day when we could bind him to someone,” Fergus said, nodding to Emhyr. “Forgive me for being so cheerful.”

“They make a handsome couple,” Efa said. “Such beautiful contrast between them. I think enough for the people to forgive Geralt for not being from Nilfgaard.”

“Well, we must begin to show our Northern cousins that we appreciate them for who they are. What better way than to have one of their number as first consort to the crown prince?”

“I think they might have preferred to see a princess in the place of a witcher,” Efa said. “But I would not. Emhyr deserves this happiness, and there will be no shortage of princesses.”

“We have interest from one in Cintra, in fact,” Fergus responded. “But I planned on saving that information until after the two of them have settled. No need to rush.”

“No need,” Efa agreed. “Let them have their happiness.”

She sat back, still clasping her husband’s hand, and watching her son and his soon-to-be consort finally dancing in time with each other.

They would do that, she was sure, for a very long time to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as ever for coming along for the ride with me!! I hope despite the slowness of the last couple of chapters you've had a good time <3


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